


Elope

by Girukun



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, they're both hopeless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 14:54:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2777231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Girukun/pseuds/Girukun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're just friends; that's all they've ever been. Hajime has long accepted his role as the one to pick up the broken, shattered pieces of Tooru and put them back together. No matter how sturdy a rhythm it is, Hajime feels the constriction of affection, of fondness, and he yearns to stomp it down until it crumbles away with the sanity he has relinquished to keep Tooru so close.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Elope

This is not where Iwaizumi Hajime wants to be.

It's two-thirty in the morning and as cold as hell frozen over; he hates the winter, hates the snow. There's nothing at all enjoyable about such a chilled season. Naturally, he thinks these bitter things while inside, kept warm by a blanket, glaring at the frosted window in his residence rather than actually experiencing what gives it its icy sheen. He is within the comfort of his own home and room, yet it is one of the things residing with him that discomforts him so. He does not want to be here, not accompanied by his childhood friend, _never_ accompanied by his childhood friend. Things are simpler when Tooru isn't around.

Tooru is here, however, and that is unavoidable.

It's a sturdy rhythm they've had for years. Rarely does Tooru stay within the confines of his own house, and Hajime has no qualms about that; _it's too violent, too unstable_ , he always concedes, recalls the many memories he has filed in over time of having soothed a wrecked and upset Tooru. Even after so many years, Hajime knows little about his family–they have never cared to present themselves in a kind or agreeable fashion, and that is all he needs to know. Another fight has occurred, another _screaming match_ , and as such, Tooru now rests in his usual place atop Hajime's bed throughout the evening.

Hajime still does not want to be here. He doesn't want to hold Tooru, cradle him through every nervous breakdown, help him pull the covers to near above his ears because he _just hates feeling exposed that much_ when he lays his head down to rest. Tooru has been asleep for hours, Hajime thinks, and jerks on the spot as the numbers on his clock bounce higher.

"Are you awake, Iwa-chan?"

Hajime registers the question and the slight hoarseness of Tooru's voice. There's no good use in fibbing, so he stirs, shifts his arm where it rests above the jut of his teammate's hip. It's warm, certainly, yet Tooru's skin is still cold. "Yeah."

"Good," Tooru murmurs, and turns in order to face Hajime; it isn't as if he can see, however, head burrowed against the latter's chest. "I can't sleep."

They're just friends; that's all they've ever been. Hajime has long accepted his role as the one to pick up the broken, shattered pieces of Tooru and put them back together. No matter how sturdy a rhythm it is, Hajime feels the constriction of affection, of fondness, and he yearns to stomp it down until it crumbles away with the sanity he has relinquished to keep Tooru so close. 

Tooru never does anything but continue to edge closer.

It _hurts_.

"We've got practice tomorrow. You need to try," Hajime returns. One hand raises to thread through the silken tresses of Tooru's hair, and the other caresses the small of his back. Perhaps it's odd for _friends_ to lay so close–he knows it is, yet he resumes his soft gestures solely because they make Tooru _calm_. It's not about Hajime being comfortable–it's about ensuring Tooru is instead. "You'll already regret only getting three hours of sleep."

"You're awake, too. Maybe you infected me with your insomnia."

"Don't be stupid. Tell me what the matter is."

Tooru gives a gentle sigh. It's unfair that even his _despair_ is alluring, Hajime thinks, and the hand on Tooru's back ceases movement when the setter starts to shift about; he feels legs curl round his waist and can only plead for Tooru to _stop it, stop getting so close, he can't take it_.

That plead never leaves his mouth. 

"The usual," comes Tooru's answer; the usual is _why can't my family just be normal_ from Hajime's experience, so he nods, lets his chin rest atop Tooru's head.

"You don't have to stay with them, at least. My door's always open to you–and you'll get away from them permanently once you're of age, I'm sure."

"Would be nice," Tooru mumbles, raises his head in a cautious manner. Hajime pretends not to notice that he's being looked at. "And would Iwa-chan elope with me?"

"Don't use big words you don't know the meaning of." Hajime finally _does_ glance at Tooru, though he doesn't let it last. He can't keep solid visual contact with his childhood friend anymore–he can't keep any real contact with Tooru sans difficulty. "I'd run away with you if you really wanted me to, though, sure."

"I didn't ask if you'd run away. Would you _elope_?"

"Do you know the definition of elope?"

"Hajime," Tooru starts again; he stiffens, stills, bound by the rarity that is the usage of his first name, and looks at Tooru with an air of vigilance.

Tooru's hands press gently over his neck, lift to card shortly through his hair, and he cannot recall the last time he has respired.

"Would you elope with me, Hajime?"

It needs to collapse. That aching, _painful_ desire within him needs to decay, fragment and collapse. Hajime is no longer avoiding eye contact; Tooru is staring and so is he. The silence is deafening in essence, and he finally does breathe again.

"Yeah. I would."

As if drained, the tension in Tooru's form seeps away, and his hands roam fondly over his friend's jaw–Hajime does not move, does not even flick his eyes elsewhere. Now, he isn't sure what's safe, what isn't, what's right or wrong, where their boundaries lie as best friends, as teammates–

"Iwa-chan," Tooru beckons, softer with every syllable, "you think too much."

"But–"

" _Too much_ , Iwa-chan. You could hold me tighter, grab me and kiss me the way they do in romantic movies, but _no_ , you're wasting your time _thinking_."

"You're tactless and annoying," Hajime retorts. His hands kindly caress Tooru's back and waist again; he is hardly the most physical person, truthfully, yet he's never hesitated even a moment to touch Tooru. 

"You still said you'd elope with me, even if I'm tactless and annoying." Tooru's eyes are closed, now, and he's no longer moving around, soundlessly enjoying the appreciation he is given through the sensation of touch. "Are you still not going to kiss me?"

"I don't know if I want to kiss that smartass mouth of yours."

"That's _rude_ , Hajime." It's then that Tooru's eyes open, and Hajime furrows his brow when he's shown a pout that ought to be downright illegal. "You've broken my heart."

"I'll break a lot more than that if you keep it up."

"Even now, you're still being so _mean_ –"

Hajime doesn't bother trying to remember the last time he has shared a kiss; what matters is Tooru, the nonexistent distance between them, how warm and sweet and _soft_ Tooru's mouth is. He tastes so very similar to the lip balm Hajime knows he has frequented for years, and it gives him the pleasant burn of endearing nostalgia.

First kisses between two beings are supposed to be short and straightforward; that's not how they've done anything before, however, and they aren't about to start now. Tooru drags his fingers over Hajime's back, his shoulders, lets his _fervency_ become known, and Hajime is anything but irresolute in his response.

It's heavy, near searing with heat, and Hajime allows the kiss to deepen and _deepen_ until he feels his own hands daring to press beneath the material of Tooru's shirt. It's then that he stops, halts, breaks away so he can regain proper breath–his definition of breaking away is loose, he supposes, given he has not parted more than an inch from Tooru's lips.

Tooru appears dazed, and Hajime is well aware that he likely doesn't look any more composed himself.

"There's your kiss," he murmurs, brushes Tooru's hair out of his face, gently runs his thumb over the setter's temple. "Happy?"

"Never," Tooru responds. He manages to shuffle closer yet, arms looped atop Hajime's shoulders, and for once, for _once_ , Hajime does the same. "Not until Iwa-chan is kissing me every second of every day."

"I'm not a miracle worker," he snorts in return, making an effort to adjust their blankets properly for the evening before closing his eyes. Now, he's tired–they need to sleep above all else.

"But you are. You always have been."

"Is that so?"

"Of course. There hasn't been a single problem of mine you haven't solved." Tooru twines their legs as best as he can all while settling down; it's odd for them both to be so mellow, but it's late, tiring, and kissing takes a fair level of energy. "You fix things."

"That'd be my specialty. I guess I just never liked seeing you upset," Hajime offers, and shows a rare smile, fatigued as it may be. "Now go to bed. You're gonna be tired tomorrow."

Tooru beams, pulls the covers up to his ear, presses snug against Hajime's form.

They're just friends; that's all they've ever been.

"I love you, Iwa-chan."

Hajime has long accepted his role, however, and their friendship is nothing less than demonstrative.

"Love you too, yeah. Get some sleep."

**Author's Note:**

> i love these two endlessly i am so sorry


End file.
